


A Heart's A Heavy Burden

by tooshyforthis



Category: Good Girls (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Howl's Moving Castle Fusion, F/M, Magic, Meet-Cute, POV Beth Boland
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:13:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27190909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tooshyforthis/pseuds/tooshyforthis
Summary: In the land of Ingary, where such things as seven-league boots and cloaks of invisibility really exist, such a simple thing as dancing with a charming man at a wedding reception can result in such severe consequences as being cursed.--Howl's Moving Castle AU with Beth as Sophie and Rio as Howl.
Relationships: Beth Boland & Annie Marks, Beth Boland & Ruby Hill, Beth Boland & Ruby Hill & Annie Marks, Beth Boland/Dean Boland (Past Relationship), Beth Boland/Rio, Dean Boland/Amber Dooley, Gregg/Annie Marks, Ruby Hill/Stan Hill
Comments: 15
Kudos: 119





	A Heart's A Heavy Burden

**Author's Note:**

> this is the howl's moving castle au you never knew you needed  
> un-beta'd so all mistakes are mine, sorry  
> enjoy! :)

Beth takes a bite out of her cupcake, careful not to let the overabundant pink frosting fall — getting a big pink stain on her best dress, the blue one that Annie says brings out her eyes, would be a sure-fire way to make this day even worse than it already is —, her face scrunching up when the flavour registers. The decision to make lemon-flavoured cupcakes with cherry frosting was certainly an unfortunate one, and one which Mr. Elton must be regretting dearly — there isn’t enough sugar in the cupcakes to cut down the sourness of the lemon and the tartness of the cherries only highlights the bitter taste instead of cutting it down. The result is the worst cupcake Beth has ever eaten in her life, surpassing even Annie’s attempts at chocolate cupcakes, which had all resembled burnt toast more than anything else. Beth could almost be gleeful, thinking of all the clients Mr. Elton will lose, who will certainly gravitate towards her bakery instead, if only she hadn’t tasted the damned thing herself.

Beth tamps down the urge to spit out the bite she took and drops the cupcake back to her plate, doing her best to not let the disgust she feels show on her face. Once she’s finally swallowed, she takes a sip of water, hoping it’ll clear away the taste — when it doesn’t, she drinks the rest of the glass in one go, not caring what she looks like as she does so. Beside her, Annie laughs, delighted to see Beth make a fool of herself, attracting the attention of people from the neighbouring tables in the process.

“I told you, it’s _so_ much worse than you could ever imagine!”

“Annie,” Beth pleads, her hand coming up to rest on her sister’s arm.

Annie rolls her eyes and moves her arm away, letting Beth’s hand fall to the table. “It’s _true_.”

“It might very well be true, but that doesn’t mean everyone needs to know you think so.”

“You shouldn’t worry so much about what other people think,” Annie says with a huff.

“And when my livelihood stops depending on other people’s opinions, I won’t,” Beth replies, frustration clear in her tone. Then, softer, “You know business is dropping, I can’t afford for people to dislike us even more.”

She hopes the reminder of the shambles her finances are in will be enough to quiet down Annie for the rest of the night but knows it probably won’t — it never has before. Still, it is enough to quiet her down _now_.

“They’re just miserable little people who have nothing better to do than spread unfounded rumours. They’ll find someone new to gossip about soon enough.” Her tone is so confident that Beth could almost convince herself that Annie believes what she’s saying, if it weren’t for the trembling of her breath betraying her.

It’s been over a year since the gossips of the town had set their eyes on Beth, after the scandal with Annie’s pregnancy and subsequent elopement, and they showed no signs of moving on to someone else. Beth is tempted to say as much but decides against it. Annie is well-aware of all this, she’s just decided to ignore it so she can have fun. And while Beth can’t agree with her sister’s decision, she also doesn’t see any benefit to reminding her of the truth — it would just lead to another pointless fight, and she’s already exhausted enough as it is without adding another week of having to plead with Annie to forgive her on top of everything else. So, instead, Beth opts to go back to the previous topic.

“It really is disgusting,” Beth says, picking at the cupcake wrapping. Annie smiles, encouraging her to go on, “I have no idea why they decided on cherry frosting for lemon cupcakes, of all things. If they’d just gone with buttercream, it wouldn’t be half so bad.”

“Oh, I can tell you that,” Annie replies, a smirk on her face. “I heard Mr. Elton complaining that the bride insisted that the cupcakes absolutely _needed_ to be pink. They tried to convince her cherry frosting at this time of year would be a bad idea because there aren’t any ripe sweet cherries yet, but she wouldn’t listen.”

“Well, yes, that does sound like Miss Dooley,” Beth can’t help but say, voice dripping with sarcasm. But then she remembers exactly where she is and _why_ , colour flooding her cheeks. “Pardon, it’s Mrs. Boland now,” she quickly corrects herself, this time not letting any emotion show.

“Yes, _Mrs. Boland_ certainly isn’t the type who gives up. Not even when she _should_.” Annie’s distaste is obvious to anyone paying attention — it can only speak to how tired Beth is of this recurrent fight that she doesn’t even bother with chiding Annie for her obvious dislike of the bride whose wedding reception they’re attending.

The silence that ensues between them is awkward and uncomfortable. Neither one knows how to avoid the elephant in the room now, nor how to bring it up. The age gap between them ensured Annie was always the one being comforted, and it’s clear that she has no clue as to what she should do now that the tables are reversed, especially because she’s acutely aware that at least part of the reason why Beth is suffering is Annie’s own doing. Beth is tired of trying, to no avail, to explain to Annie that she is not _heartbroken_ , nothing so silly as that — she was never in love with Dean, more flattered by the attention he gave her and then quietly content with the stability of their relationship and the future that awaited her, which she knows Annie could never understand, still too in love with her childish idea of love. Beth might just be a little heartbroken about _that_ , though — that after more than two years of courting, her beau leaving her to marry another woman only left her with a severely wounded pride and not much else.

Not for the first time this afternoon, Beth stares at the empty seats in front of her reserved for the Hills, and wishes Ruby could be here. Of course she’s incredibly happy for Ruby and Stanley, there are no two people she knows more deserving of the blessing of a child. But her night wouldn’t be quite so miserable if Ruby hadn’t entered confinement, if she could be here to help her keep Annie in check and laugh at the gossips with her. Ruby would know exactly what to say to take Annie’s mind off the subject. Beth doesn’t, so she stays quiet, observing her sister, hoping she’ll find something else to talk about.

Annie picks at the frills on the skirt of her green dress, eyebrows furrowed in thought, and Beth is vividly reminded of when Annie was a child, always messing with any frills or lace trimmings on her dresses, anxious to get out of them as soon as possible. Nothing’s changed, and yet so much has — Annie _isn’t_ a child anymore, she’s a happily married woman with a child of her own. Beth fights the urge to bat Annie’s hand away like she’s still that restless little girl, fiddling with her empty glass for something to do with her hands.

“Beth, I’m -”

“I’m going to get myself another drink. Do you need anything?” Beth interrupts, rising from her chair. She just can’t sit through whatever speech Annie is going to give her — she is so incredibly tired of the guilt in Annie’s voice, the pity in her eyes. They’ve had this same conversation in full at least thrice now, and it seems to make no difference whatsoever — Annie always left just as convinced that Beth was suffering because of her as she had been when they’d started, no matter how many times Beth assured her that she _wasn’t_ suffering and didn’t blame Annie for Dean’s decision to terminate their courtship. She can already feel the beginning of a headache just at the thought of rehashing it again, in the middle of Dean’s wedding celebrations, within earshot of all the people who are expecting her to publicly humiliate herself by declaring Dean the love of her life or some such unbelievable nonsense.

Annie takes a deep breath and nods to herself, a small smile on her face. “No, thank you. Go get yourself another glass of water, grandma.” Relief floods through Beth at the use of the old nickname. “I’ll sit here and enjoy my wine,” Annie says, reaching for her glass and taking a sip.

With a roll of her eyes and a pat to Annie’s shoulder, Beth turns away, moving towards the long table at the back of the room filled with food and refreshments, careful not to get in the way of the dancing couples as she passes the dance floor.

The table is practically empty when she reaches it, with only two young men dressed in dark suits standing at the opposite end from her, near the quiches and sandwiches. She quickly fills her glass with lemonade — pink, of course, to match the cupcakes and the bride’s dress and absolutely everything else that could possibly be pink, it seems — and moves towards the middle of the table, where the desserts are. There is an abundance of pink sweets to choose from, and Beth is considering whether or not to risk trying the pink apple tarts when Mr. Peterson approaches her, giving her such a fright, she almost drops her glass.

“I’m so sorry to have scared you, Beth,” Mr. Peterson says, laying a hand on her arm in what she’s sure he thinks is a reassuring gesture. His touch on her bare arm and use of her nickname make her grind her teeth, annoyance clawing at her. She wants nothing more than to slap his hand away and disabuse him of the notion that he’s allowed to refer to her with such familiarity — but Mr. Peterson has been a loyal costumer, if an irritating one, and she can’t afford to lose him to Mr. Elton’s bakery over his taking such a small liberty as this. “I thought you could see me coming over to you.”

Beth plasters a fake smile on her face. “No, I’m sorry, I was distracted thinking about the apple tarts.”

He laughs, the sound squeaky to her ears, and his hand clamps down harder on her arm. She’s sure if he continues like this, she’ll have a bruise tomorrow.

“Yes, yes, Mr. Elton’s tarts are splendid, as always. One couldn’t blame you for getting distracted.”

There’s an uncomfortable pause as he waits for her response. Beth racks her brain, thinking of what reply he could think that would warrant, before settling on, “Quite.”

“I was thinking, Beth… you haven’t danced yet, correct?”

The line of questioning fills her stomach with dread, but she does her best to make sure the smile on her face doesn’t fall as she answers. “No, I’ve been sitting with my sister.”

Mr. Peterson frowns for a moment at the mention of Annie, before quickly hiding it with a too-wide smile. “Yes, yes. I did see the two of you sitting together, I believe.”

Beth only nods in response. Mr. Peterson finally lets go of her arm then, moving to stand in front of her, a hand extended in front of him. “Would you do me the honour of dancing your first with me?”

“Oh… Thank you, but I can’t,” Beth says, hoping he will accept her answer and move on.

But, of course, she could never be so lucky. Mr. Peterson, looking surprised, immediately replies with a “Why not?”

“I still haven’t decided on those tarts,” she jokes, pointing to the table.

“Oh, of course! They’re incredibly good, I’m sure you’ll enjoy them. You should bring a plate over to your table before they disappear,” Mr. Peterson replies. Beth takes a relieved breath before he continues, smiling, “I’ll help you do that, and then we can dance.”

“I-” Beth starts, considering how best to refuse him again. But the more she thinks about it, the ruder it seems, and she _really_ can’t afford to lose another regular client. She’s just about to agree to the dance, when a hand comes to rest between her shoulder blades, stopping her.

She turns to look at the man beside her, expecting to see that Gregory or Maxwell have come to rescue her, only to find instead one of the young men she’d seen standing by the table before. Up close, she can now see that his black suit is threaded with gold, shimmering in the light, and that there is the imprint of a bird on his throat — a sorcerer’s mark. Her shoulders tense with unease — Beth has nothing against wizards, as a general rule, but ever since Wizard Rio had taken up residence in the hills with his monstrosity of a castle a couple months before, she’d become wary of ones she hadn’t met previously. It was only what any sensible girl would do, seeing as Wizard Rio was known to steal the hearts of unmarried girls and there was no way to know what he looked like.

“I believe we haven’t been introduced yet,” the man says, offering his hand to Mr. Peterson for a handshake.

“No, I believe we haven’t,” Mr. Peterson says as he shakes the stranger’s hand. “I’m Leslie Peterson, Wizard Turner’s assistant. And who might you be?”

“Christopher Ramirez,” the man replies, disentangling his hand after a final shake. Mr. Peterson’s face sours — Mr. Ramirez not indicating his own position is a clear and incredibly rude dismissal of Mr. Peterson as the person of importance he has fancied himself to be ever since he managed to become one of Wizard Turner’s assistants and Beth is positively _giddy_ to have witnessed it. “Well, Mr. Peterson, I’m sorry to tell you that the lovely Miss Marks here can’t accept your offer to dance,” he adds, flippant, as he adjusts his cuffs, only adding more insult to injury.

“And why not?” Mr. Peterson asks, face turning red with indignation.

“Because she has already accepted to dance with _me_.” Beth is just as shocked as Mr. Peterson at his response, but quickly hides it, knowing full-well that if the other man doubts the veracity of this statement, she will have no choice but to accept him instead. “I’ve been waiting for her to be in the mood to dance all night, and it seems like my opportunity has finally come,” he adds with a charming smile.

“My, why didn’t you just say so, Beth? You didn’t need to lie about the tarts, it’s perfectly understandable.”

Beth’s good humour at seeing Mr. Peterson humiliated immediately evaporates at the implication that he was perfectly aware she was trying to politely refuse him and was just going to pretend to misunderstand her until she caved. All hesitance she felt at going along with the stranger’s lie goes with it. After all, it isn’t very likely that this Christopher Ramirez is Wizard Rio — the man isn’t exactly known for going around saving women from unwanted dance partners. And, even if he _were_ Wizard Rio, at thirty Beth has certainly aged out of being an unmarried _girl_ , and he wouldn’t bother with stealing _her_ heart, even if he were here looking for one to steal.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I just didn’t know how to say it without seeming rude,” Beth lies, a sympathetic frown on her face.

Mr. Peterson smiles, pleased with her answer. “No need to worry, of course I understand. You go and enjoy this dance with Mr. Ramirez, we will have plenty more opportunities to dance together.”

Beth tries her best not to let her smile drop at this, her tone sickly-sweet as she responds, “Yes, of course.”

As Mr. Peterson leaves, Beth turns to face Mr. Ramirez. Now that she’s looking at him directly, she can appreciate his handsome features — the full lips and long lashes might perhaps make him _prettier_ than most men would be comfortable being, but they’re nicely offset by his strong jaw and brow bone. And, in any case, prettiness doesn’t seem to be a problem for him, judging by his abundance of jewellery — there is a diamond adorning his nose, gold rings in almost every finger, a long necklace around his neck.

His lips turn up into a smirk at her obvious appraisal, brown eyes shining with mischief. She knows he expects her to blush now, but she absolutely refuses to give him the satisfaction of showing any hint of embarrassment — _she_ is not the one who decided to listen in on other people’s conversations and then interrupt them.

“Thank you,” Beth says primly. “Shall we dance?”

His smirk widens into a smile. With a snap of his fingers, her glass disappears from her hand, materialising at her table along with a plate filled with apple tarts and sweet rolls, startling Annie and Gregory, who’s finally joined her again. “We shall,” he answers, taking her hand in his and guiding her towards the dance floor.

They quickly get into position — one of her hands comes to rest on his shoulder while one of his settles at her waist, pulling her closer than what might be considered strictly necessary, their other two hands clasped together at shoulder height. As he begins to lead her through the familiar steps, Beth asks him, “How did you know my name?”

He chuckles. “Everyone knows your name, Miss Marks.”

Beth feels panic clawing at her — of course the gossip has spread so far that even men she has never seen before in her life know exactly who she is.

“The Marks Bakery is a staple of this town and I wouldn’t dream of passing through without trying the famous blueberry muffins,” he continues. Beth studies his face, looking for any signs that he’s just lying to appease her, but his easy manner as he says it makes her believe him. The panic recedes, a smile making its way onto her face.

“I hope they didn’t disappoint.”

“Not at all, they’ve become my apprentice’s favourites. Not a week goes by that he doesn’t beg me to buy another box of them. If he continues on like this, I’m going to go bankrupt.”

Beth giggles. She’s fully aware he’s only saying these things to flatter her, and that he might very well never even have stepped foot in her bakery, but she is delighted to let him. Flattery is a much-appreciated deviation from the barely hidden contempt — and, even worse in her opinion, pity — she’s usually treated with, these days.

“And what was _your_ favourite?”

“The lemon sweet rolls.”

Beth blinks up at him, surprised by how quickly his answer came. Then, she remembers the sweet rolls on the plate he’d materialised at her table — those two things can’t be a coincidence, she decides. “Are sweet rolls always your favourite?”

He smirks, clearly having caught on to her line of questioning. “No, I wouldn’t say always.”

Beth can see now that Mr. Ramirez is the kind of man that would be able to talk around a subject for hours without ever touching on it. And Mr. Ramirez is about to see, Beth thinks, that she is not the kind of woman that will allow him to slither out of answering her.

“I didn’t ask for sweet rolls.”

Mr. Ramirez chuckles. “No, but as much as they can’t hold a candle to yours, the sweet rolls are the best dessert here. I think you’ll enjoy them more than the tarts.” Then, with a smirk, he adds, “Or more than those lemon cupcakes, at the very least.”

Beth narrows her eyes, lips pursing. “Tell me, Mr. Ramirez, do you often observe unsuspecting girls during wedding celebrations?”

“Not at all, Miss Marks,” he answers with an innocent smile, twirling her. Beth doesn’t believe him at all and is about to tell him as much when he continues, “This is my first wedding. But I do often observe unsuspecting girls during other celebrations.”

“And do you always force dances and your preferred desserts onto these poor girls?”

“Only if they’re incredibly pretty.”

She can’t help but laugh at his brazen response. His smile grows bigger.

“Does that line usually work for you?” Beth asks, once her laughter has dwindled away and settled into a soft smile.

“Always.”

Beth hums. “I can see why.”

His smile softens in response, less intentionally charming but all the more appealing for it.

When the music comes to a stop and he asks her if she’d like to return to her seat, she declines, content to let him lead her around the dance floor for two more dances in comfortable silence. Only after the third dance does he return her to her table, empty now that Annie and Gregory are dancing.

“I hope you enjoy the sweet rolls,” he says in lieu of a goodbye.

“I’m sure I won’t,” comes her reply, making him chuckle.

He softly kisses her knuckles, before turning to leave as she sits down, a happy smile on her face. It becomes a full-fledged grin when she finally tries the sweet rolls, finding that they are indeed better than the lemon cupcakes and the apple tarts.


End file.
